Burdened Soul
by Coofis
Summary: She was his ray of light. She was what kept him from tumbling into the encompassing darkness that threatened to consume him whole. She penetrated his pain and taught him to love again, when no one else was willing. She saved him. BV
1. Chapter 1

Burdened Soul »

**Summary:** She was his ray of light. She was what kept him from tumbling into the encompassing darkness that threatened to consume him whole. She penetrated his pain and taught him to love again, when no one else was willing. She saved him. BV

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The aura he carried was dark, and his eyes smoldered with unseen torment. He was an object to which scorn was directed without mercy—a lone Prince, ruler of a home long reduced to stardust and a people long committed to memory. Power was his obsession, and Power was his downfall. Power was what he clung to in the face of losing all he had. And as he bled his life away upon the sapphire sands of Namek, Power failed him.

But that failure, the sting of that abandonment, with the sardonic laughter of Frieza ringing in his ears and the miseries of his enslaved life fading from his eyes, pierced his very core in a way that no other past failure had.

His father had failed him.

He had been a child, lonely and humiliated, with boyish bangs cascading impishly into the twin obsidian orbs that watched with expectancy for his father's victory over Frieza.

But Frieza had caused the death of his father, tearing him away from the young Prince, and finding great amusement in the pain that he so desperately tried to disguise. He grieved in silence, not permitting the tears to fall lest the cruel Icejin should discover yet another weak link in his armor and lunge for it, crushing the hint of sensitive emotion.

His title had failed him.

Destiny ordained that he would be a mighty warrior, the strongest of them all. And yet he had been reduced to a prone, broken figure, weeping as his final ounce of hope was taken from him to leave only a hollow shell—a laughable parody of what had once been. Darkness had closed in, and the image of the frowning warrior standing above, immortalized in the final heartbeat echoing in the silence of his dimming consciousness, had blurred out of existence until Vegeta was alone in the abyss.

_Everyone and everything he ever dared to love had failed him, so he learned to scorn love._

Love would only ruin him, distract him, coerce him into chasing after its wiles when his previous experiences told him that love always hurt in the end. What use was love to him? It was pleasant while it lasted, but it brought too much pain. It was not worth the effort.

He had craved Power and had loved it, but even Power deserted him.

With the aid of the Namekian Dragon Balls, life had been sparked within him once again, unwavering, fresh, and brimming with vivacity; putting into his gloved hands a second chance to grasp the potential that danced before him with the promise of a brighter future.

Nearly a year after his return to the land of the living, he found himself bathed in the crimson light of the Gravity Simulator, hounded on all sides by the electronic chirping of dutiful robots that seemed to be programmed with the innate ability to bend beneath the slightest outburst of his vigorous training regime. They tended to break at the smallest exertion of energy he exhibited. They were a hindrance, but a necessary one; he needed the replication of a true battle, and it was not easy to replicate one when he only had himself to spar with. He relished the idea of the battle prophesied to come in less than three years, however, and was even more desirous of the battle with Kakarrot that was sure to come once the Androids were disposed of.

He would not lower himself to spar with the scar-faced weakling currently attempting to claim victory over imaginary opponents outside. It was a never-ending war, and one in which Vegeta had admittedly participated in the confines of the simulator when robots were not available. His imagined opponents had the tendency to resemble either a scarlet-eyed, thick-tailed Icejin or an orange-clothed Saiyan, depending on the dark state of his mood.

The steady bass rumble of the simulator permeated the entirety of Capsule Corp., and as Bulma turned the rustling pages of a stimulating romance novel, her gentle frown grew further into a pensive scowl. Flicking a wayward strand of blue from her eyes and reminding herself that abandoning her current wild hairstyle would be a rewarding sacrifice, the heiress sighed in frustration.

_That man is going to train himself to death one day,_ she mused, and the unpleasant fact that he already almost _had_ on the traumatic day of the explosion brought no comfort.

She supposed it could be worse. He could revert back to his past training methods, which were much less friendly than employing the aid of the GR. It was best that he was contained in such a way instead of scampering across the face of the Earth with less-than-benign intentions.

Suddenly, the perpetual thunder of machinery working in oily harmony dissipated into eerie silence. The telltale sound of a door being harshly opened alerted her to the fact that the dedicated Prince was finally taking a breather.

Bulma could not help but admire him for his diligent work ethic.

Although he irritated her to no end, the scientist could not help but feel fondness for him, as well as a sort of enigmatic curiosity. She caught glimpses of his internal struggles, and saw the occasional flash of emotion that consumed his features at a level of intensity that shocked and saddened her. He had been a slave since childhood with scars to prove it. They were all etched deeply and indicative of unspeakable pain—pain that he had bottled up inside for the purpose of hiding his weakness from the world. That was the kind of environment he had grown up in—where mere _survival_ was on the forefront of his agenda.

She knew that there was something deep inside, locked away as a result of years of misery. He was hesitant to let it shine as old habits and old memories threatened to overtake him. Those memories haunted his slumber, plaguing his every step.

Bulma had never seen Frieza and from the tales she had heard she never wanted to. He had been cruel, bloodthirsty, and disdainful of any life but his own. And Vegeta had been enslaved by that monster for the majority of his life, and was even _killed_ by the wicked Icejin with a shot to his heart.

It confirmed that there was much more to the Saiyan Prince than he let on—a dark past that he seemed to want to forget. Loss and humiliation marked the path he had been forced to tread upon. He had only tasted a fracture of freedom on Namek when he rebelled against his captor, and it was to no avail. He had tried _oh_ so desperately to achieve liberty but had perished in the end amid the mocking snickers of the one who had ruined his life in the first place—the one who had destroyed his planet, his family, and his people.

If Bulma were the captive, frustrated and longing for freedom but unable to attain it, how would her reaction would have been? To what lengths would her despair lead her? Would she turn toward the dark side, as Vegeta had? Would she seek a way to triumph over her pain, as Vegeta had, only to find that it was impossible, as Vegeta had discovered as his life slipped away out of his reach?

Bulma headed toward the kitchen, where the Prince would inevitably be.

_If I were in his position, would I become like him?_ Bulma wondered.

It was then that she resolved not to give up on him. She saw a vague whisper of what could be. She saw that, although it would take time and patience, there was enough good inside of the Saiyan warrior to one day redeem him from the evil that lurked within. He did not have a heart of stone. His heart was simply sealed away, with emotionless walls built around it as a defensive maneuver to protect against hostile attacks.

She would be his ray of light in times of darkness. She would teach him how to love again, and show him that love was not worthy of his scorn, but his protection. No one else dared to reach out to such a burdened soul, but she would. She would do her best to ransom him back from the evil that threatened to consume him.

Perhaps one day he would come to accept love.

And perhaps he would one day give his life for its sake.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N – By popular request, I am back with a new chapter in continuation of the first, since several of you wanted it. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I didn't plan for a second chapter, so it may not be as good as the first. Let me know what you think. **

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Bulma suppressed a sigh at the sight that greeted her upon entering the kitchen.

The Prince's eyes were more intense than usual—chips of onyx fire glittering darkly amid a frustrated frown and closely-drawn eyebrows.

"I require sustenance, woman," Vegeta commanded.

Bulma, however, did not comply immediately.

The warrior kept one wary eye trained on the whimsical heiress, but in reality his mind was elsewhere. He had been inches away from the transformation. He could feel the wisps of power clouding his being and strengthening his limbs—a golden essence dangling just out of his reach. He could feel the cocoon of glistening energy surrounding him in light as his emotions heightened. He could _feel_ it. He had been mere seconds from breaking through the barrier. But just as joy captured his heart and anticipation blossomed in the smirk that was sculpted into his features, he could feel himself descending, falling downwards, back into the bowels of hopelessness that had been tugging at him ever since Namek.

The energy had disintegrated, melting into nothingness. He had not made the transformation.

Rage had taken ahold of him inexplicably and suddenly, and in a blind tantrum streaks of crimson energy had ripped from his hands, destroying the robots that hovered before him. The light had bounced back toward him, besetting him on all sides, and he had not had time to dodge the onslaught…

The result had not been pleasant.

How could a low-class warrior do what the Prince could not? How could Kakarrot, a Saiyan child born with a power level of two, surpass the strongest of them all? Vegeta had deduced long ago that fate had a grudge against him. By retaining his place as the strongest, Kakarrot was mocking the Saiyan Prince, depriving him of his honor. It had been _Kakarrot_ who had avenged the Saiyan race, when it was Vegeta who had dreamed of doing so and had every right to. It was _Kakarrot_ who had achieved legendary status, when it was Vegeta who had spent his entire life longing for the day that he could finally attain it. It was his ticket to freedom and success.

It seemed that his life was defined by those who had been embraced by Power instead of betrayed by it. Frieza, in accordance with the ultimatum _might makes right,_ had been his master. Everything that Vegeta had accomplished was linked in some way to Frieza—whether he completed a mission or trained to overthrow the lizard tyrant.

Now that Frieza was Icejin cold cuts, two new Power-wielding warriors had entered into the picture—Kakarrot and the mystery boy from the future. And now nearly every moment was spent striving to surpass them. And still the satisfaction of victory evaded him. What exactly did fate _have_ against him?

But the Prince was used to nearly insurmountable obstacles trying to destroy him. He had been discouraged all of his life by the mocking laughter of those that surrounded him on Frieza's ship, and he had found a way to impose icy revenge. Cui, Zarbon, Dodoria—their bodies were mere stardust now, along with Frieza. If fate chose to battle against him every step of the way, he would cheat it somehow.

He had never been opposed to cheating.

The very names of his old tormentors wrought a shadow across his features, and as his countenance darkened it did not go unnoticed by Bulma. Her concern heightened when a flicker of emotion danced through his vision then was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Vegeta, what's wrong?" Bulma prompted again.

"Nothing, woman," he snapped with his usual temper, whisking whatever glimpse of weakness he had revealed behind the stoic mask he was so accustomed to wearing. He was a warrior, not someone to be pitied.

"No, Vegeta," the scientist persisted, "It's not _nothing_. You look exhausted."

He snarled under his breath.

Bulma was saddened by the subtle fractures of profound emotion that sped quickly over his face before completely disappearing. He felt the need to hide even signs of fatigue from her. She surmised that the environment which he had been forced to inhabit was a world in which it was every man for himself, and where none could be trusted. The Golden Rule of that barbaric world was none other than eat or be eaten, kill or be killed.

Could a man truly be indicted of murder when it was all he had ever been taught to do? Was his true, honorable nature simply repressed by the onslaught of cruelty that careened against him? All who were disdainful of him did their best to break him apart with their bitter taunts and harsh words—can he be blamed for reacting negatively?

Beneath the furrowed eyebrows and churning ebony pupils; beneath the devilish smirk and ever-brooding expression; beneath the sharply-contoured figure and chiseled muscles glistening with sweat; beneath the arrogant creature that several of the Z Fighters loathed with enthusiasm lay an entirely different person.

He had been bred a royal, with the potential to possess and wield all the admirable faculties which are bestowed upon the most honorable of kings. His posture and his varied vocabulary were indications of his heritage—a heritage that had exploded in a myriad of gold and crimson fireworks when Frieza eliminated Vegetasei.

The thought struck Bulma of how alone Vegeta must feel. Goku was a pureblood Saiyan, but he could hardly be a comfort to the Saiyan Prince. Goku had forgotten his Saiyan roots and was now the heralded defender of the Earth. Vegeta had no one to relate to.

And yet he loathed pity. The moment he witnessed the slightest glint of compassion in the eyes of those that were his companions, he revolted against it. Was it because he considered them to be mocking him? Was it a result of some distant memory on Frieza's ship that involved such things? He insisted upon clinging to his pride, and thought of pity as a violation against his pride.

At times he was difficult to comprehend, and at other times he seemed to be _almost_ naïve. He was no stranger to the darker side of the spectrum, familiar with malice; acquainted, too, with unimaginable pain. And he found it hard to grasp the concepts of love and trust. It was unknown territory for a warrior who was experienced with fear and chaos. He had been plunged into turmoil at the age of five and had not had a chance to experience much else. He was accustomed to hiding his true emotions and rejecting those that hindered his efforts. He was accustomed to fighting a never-ending battle for liberty.

Now he had liberty, or as much liberty as he could salvage when he still had a grudge against the Saiyan who had gained a foothold over him in terms of strength; and he did not know what to do with it other than revert to his old habits of constant training and biding his time. As they say, old habits die hard.

And even as Bulma relented and gave her guest what he had come for, namely _sustenance,_ her thoughts hinged upon the enigma that was Vegeta, Prince of All Saiyans.

Bulma recalled that day that seemed so long ago, when she had stood before the anxious crowd of Namekians with arms outstretch and eyes twinkling with hospitality as she invited them all to remain temporarily stationed at her home. He had been there, leaning neutrally against a tree, his features downcast and deeply engaged in thought. He had cocked one bushy eyebrow at the invitation she cordially extended toward him, with her plea to _relax_ and to see _what_ _life had to offer him._

Life had not offered him much to rejoice in up until then. Life had stranded him in childhood as a slave on a tyrant's warship without a home or loved ones. Life had dangled the hope of the Dragon Balls before him, only to snatch that hope away and then desert him on Namek. Life had mocked his title by bringing forth a low-class who could surpass him with ease. What else did life have to offer him?

Neither Bulma nor Vegeta knew what the life that now lay before him would hold.

At that moment, neither Bulma nor Vegeta knew that a son would be born to them, and a family would be forged.

At that moment, neither Bulma nor Vegeta knew that the life that yawned before him would end in the most bittersweet of ways, only to begin again fresh and new with the family that loved him—a family he proved he was willing to die for.

At that moment, neither Bulma nor Vegeta knew that there would be a new addition to the family to make the threesome a foursome—a little girl with blue eyes who would worm her way into the heart of the Prince just like the other two pairs of blue eyes in his life had.

At that moment, neither Bulma nor Vegeta knew that one day, while Goku would leave his family and friends to train a village boy, Vegeta would remain faithfully by his family.

Neither of them knew.


End file.
